


a chance encounter in a bakery

by skatzaa



Series: domestic Kendricks [5]
Category: The Scorpio Races - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: A Wild Finnfic Appears!, Baking, Finn Connolly is Oblivious, Gen, George Holly is a Meddler, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Palsson's, Post-Canon, i love them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-18
Updated: 2017-07-18
Packaged: 2018-12-03 22:11:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11541444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skatzaa/pseuds/skatzaa
Summary: Anonymous asked:"If you're still doing this: I wish you would write a fic where: a girl -- tourist or thisbian your choice -- comes into palsson's and is immediately smitten with Finn. She flirts with him but he is completely oblivious and just chats about baking. Maybe George Holly lets on she's interested and there's a sappy ending."





	a chance encounter in a bakery

**Author's Note:**

> This was so fun to write! Feel free to check out the rest of the series, if you haven't already, but they aren't required to understand what's going on here. This occurs about five years after the events of the books.
> 
> Apologies for any typos, I haven't read it over since I typed it all up haha.

FINN

It is the last day of June, and I am just finishing my shift at Palsson’s when Puck comes whirling through the bakery door like a summer storm over the island, George Holly hot on her heels. 

I take off my apron and hang it on the hook specifically set aside for me, and then I make my way around the counter to intercept my sister. Palsson’s isn’t too busy–it’s too warm in the summer and there’s too much to do for even the laziest of housewives to spend too much time here–but I don’t need her scaring away the customers that are here. 

November brings the most of our revenue, or so Bev told me, but we still need to make a certain amount each month for the bakery to run well. 

George Holly smiles at me over Puck’s shoulder, still as abrasively American as the day we met, despite the fact that he’s lived on Thisby six months out of the year for the past three or so years. I nod back and turn my attention to Puck, who is _much_ smaller than me now that I’ve hit a second growth spurt and she hasn’t. I think I would be taller than Gabe if he were here, but he isn’t, so it doesn’t matter. 

Her hair is a mess of riotous, knotted curls and the skin under her eyes looks bruised. Puck likes to tell me that Mum always said it’s our thin, pale skin that makes stuff like that so apparent, but sometimes I think it’s just a matter of Puck being herself; she can do nothing by halves, including sleep deprivation. 

Of course, she has a good reason for that. 

I look down at the bundle of cloth she’s holding to her chest and don’t try to stop myself from smiling. Breda, my eight-month-old niece, has been my favorite person on this island from the moment I held her, but she is her mother’s daughter. Hardly anything can stop her when she gets to screaming, and with the number of thunderstorms we get at this time of the year, it’s not surprising that Sean and Puck aren’t getting a lot of sleep. Thankfully, she’s quiet now. 

Puck thrusts Breda toward me and it’s only through practice that I don’t accidentally drop her. 

“I need you to watch her,” she says. “Some of Holly’s buyers are coming to our yard to see if they’d rather buy from us, and I can’t watch her and deal with them at the same time.” 

I gather Breda closer to my chest and bounce her slightly to keep her happy. I’m glad Puck didn’t say she was going to try to charm the buyers, because she and Sean are many things, but charming isn’t one of them. Most likely, she’ll simply intimidate them through sheer force of will into thinking that taking their business to the Kendricks’ yard is a good idea. 

Puck storms back out, not even pausing to hold the door for the young woman trying to come inside. Holly leaps forward to open the door again, and she smiles her thanks at him. I look away, because her smile makes her face look even lovelier, but with Breda I can’t pick at my arms, though I want to. It’s probably a good thing that I can’t; the summer weather means I’m in nothing but a thin shirt, and the bruises show more easily without the protection of a sweater. 

Heroic deed of the day completed, Holly ambles back over to where I stand, a cheeky grin on his face. 

The young woman begins to wander around the room, peering into all of the display cases. I’m not trying to watch but I can still see her from the corner of my eye and it’s difficult not to focus at least part of my attention on her. She stops by the case of pies I just baked this afternoon, leaning over the glass to study them intently, and I feel my face flush for no reason. 

George Holly is still grinning. 

Breda begins to gurgle quietly and I look down at her to make sure she isn’t about to start screaming, but she settles again. Her face seems a little scrunched, though, so I shift her up to rest on my shoulder. She’s getting a bit big to be held like an infant now anyway and it shocks me a little, because it feels like it was just yesterday that she was born. I resolve to visit Puck and Sean’s farm more often from now on, because I don’t want to miss anything else. 

When I glance back up at Holly his grin has faded. He’s looking out the door, and if her were anyone else I’d say he’s frowning. 

“Does it bother you that some of your clients might by from Sean instead?” I ask, because it’s the only thing I can think of that might make him so pensive. 

Holly shakes his head, more like he’s trying to clear away the cobwebs and less like he’s trying to answer me. He turns his American charm my direction but it’s still subdued, like a cloud moving across the sun. He says, “No, of course not. Between this island and California, I have more buyers than I know what to do with.” He sighs. “No, I want your sister and Mr. Kendrick to succeed, and to do that they much sell more horses.” 

I can feel my mouth turn down, and Breda starts to fuss quietly against my shoulder. I hadn’t realized that they were struggling at all, let alone enough that Holly is willing to shoo some of his customers away. 

Maybe Puck and I can sit down for tea this evening when I bring Breda back, not that she gave me a time to come back. 

Breda’s fussing is edging dangerously close to true crying, so I begin to rub her back and shush her softly, hoping she won’t start now. Bev is at the till and she loves Breda as much as anyone on this island loves babies that aren’t their own—which is to say, well enough, so long as they aren’t a nuisance—but I don’t want her to scream in here and Holly looks as though he doesn’t have any intentions to move in the immediate future. I whisper nothings into Breda’s ear, because I know it’s a trick that always works for Sean. 

Sure enough, after a few moments of telling her everything in my head, low enough that only she can here, Breda’s noises ease into stuttered breathing, as though she had in fact cried and is just now recovering. 

She is, as always, her mother’s daughter. 

“Excuse me?” A soft, round mainland accent comes from the right and I turn, only to see the young woman from before. When she isn’t halfway across the room, I can see that her hair is pulled back in a low knot and her clothes are simple. Her expression is open and pleasant, and I find myself focusing on how perfect her eyebrows are. I feel like that’s a weird thing to focus on, but they’re just a shade darker than her hair and well-shaped for her face. I wonder if they naturally grow like that, or if she has to shape them the way Mum did. Puck has never bothered with anything as trivial in her mind as eyebrows, so I’m not entirely sure what that would entail. 

Holly clears his throat. 

Embarrassed, I refocus my eyes on her whole face. Her cheeks are pink, and for a moment I worry for mainlanders, if our waterlogged sunlight can still burn their skin. 

“Hello there,” she says. I duck my head at her in return, because I don’t think I can make myself speak. Looking at her whole face is hard enough. “Do you work here?” 

“Uh—yes,” I manage to say. I’m not sure how she figured that out, since she didn’t come in until after I left the back, and my thoughts must be reflecting weirdly on my face, because she gestures to her forehead with one finger and smiles prettily. 

“You have a bit of—some flour, just there.” 

I can feel my blush all the way on my ears and down my throat. It takes a bit of maneuvering, but I manage to hold Breda with one hand so I can wipe away the flour with the other. I can practically feel George Holly laughing at me, and I’m glad Puck isn’t here, because she would try to do it herself. The thought of flour being on my face—and someone like this mainland woman seeing it—makes me want to run my hands under the faucet for longer than I can reasonably afford to, and also take a bath while I’m at it. It’s only through reminding myself that I work in a bakery and this happens daily that I don’t run out the door. 

“Can I help you with something?” I ask her, and I’m only sort of sure my voice doesn’t crack. 

“Yes,” she says, “I was wondering if you could recommend me something? I’m afraid I’ve never been here before, but my cousins say I simply must try it while I’m visiting them.” 

Something warm and big settles in my chest, similar to how I used to feel when I could get the Morris running again after Gabe tried and failed, or when a practice batch of November cakes turns out perfectly. I tell her about the pies I baked this afternoon, and how I frosted the patterns on each of the cookies so they were unique, and the cinnamon twists, which were the first things I learned to bake when I started my apprenticeship in January. I point out the grand cakes in the windows, and how someday, if I do well enough, that could be _my_ job. 

She giggles at that, though it doesn’t feel like she’s laughing at me. She says, “I think you’ll make the most wonderful cakes… ah, actually, I didn’t catch your name?” 

I resituate Breda on my shoulder to cover how dumb I feel, that I forgot to introduce us. And then I remember that George Holly is still by the till, chatting with Bev but certainly still keeping an eye on us, and I feel even worse. 

“I’m Finn.” My voice must be too soft, because she leans in and asks me to repeat myself. This close, I can tell that she smells like vanilla and something I like to think belongs to the mainland, from what I remember of my visit to Gabe nearly four years ago. She’s small, between Puck’s and Sean’s heights, and I can see that her hair isn’t in a bun like I originally thought, but an elaborate braid that winds around itself. I’m not sure how she can do that herself; maybe her cousins helped her. 

“Well,” she says, leaning back and smiling up at me. “It’s lovely to meet you, Finn. My name is Emma.” 

Breda makes a noise against my shoulder and I automatically smooth my hand over her back. Emma tilts her head. 

“And who’s this?” 

I turn Breda enough that her scrunched up sleeping face is visible, and Emma awws. “Her name’s Breda,” I say, still feeling warm and full, though she is not the result of any of _my_ actions, thank goodness, like starting the Morris was or baking is. “She’s my sister’s daughter.” 

Emma grins at Breda, though she can’t see it. Then her gaze strays up, looking toward the spot where I know the clock hangs, and her whole body seems to droop. 

“Oh,” she says. “I didn’t realize that was the time. I had best make my purchases and leave.” 

“Oh,” I say back. I don’t feel warm and full anymore, and I’m not sure when that happened. 

George Holly appears at my elbow, his American charm back at full force. Emma looks slightly blinded by the sight of his grin. 

“My dear, might I recommend you try the cinnamon twists first? I have always said they’re best when Finn makes them,” he says. I squint at him, because he only just arrived on the ferry this past Saturday, and he’s only had my cinnamon twists once. Also, was he listening to our conversation? The thought makes me uncomfortable for no discernible reason. “And perhaps, if you find yourself in Skarmouth again before you leave, Finn could show you more of the island?” 

The skin around Emma’s eyes crinkles with the force of her smile. “I would like that very much,” she says, and turns to me. “Would you be available on Sunday after Mass?” 

I nod, because Sunday is the one day the bakery is closed, and it isn’t as hard now, for some reason, to look her in the eye. I don’t feel the need to pinch my arms either, and I like that. I like talking to Emma, too, so surely a tour of Thisby would be nice? 

Emma dips her head at me, still smiling, and walks to the till, where Bev is watching us with an amused expression. Once, she looks back over her shoulder at me. 

“What was that about?” I ask Holly, quietly. We begin to make our way to the door. “I’m sure her cousins know the island just as well as I do.” 

Holly laughs so loud he startles the children hovering outside the door. 

“Finn, my dear boy,” he says, shaking his head. “I do believe I just set you up on a date with young Emma there.” 

I’m so busy trying to open the door and hold Breda at the same time that I don’t hear him at first. My arm is starting to ache with her weight, and it’s not making this any easier. Holly swoops in and scoops her up, grinning like a school boy at the way she blinks at him. Somehow—as always, because for some reason Holly is Breda’s favorite—she doesn’t cry over being startled awake like that. 

And then it sinks in. 

“Wait, _what_?” I ask, voice cracking. Holly laughs at me and Breda giggles along, and I have to follow along behind them, unsteady in the wake of learning that I have been unknowingly set up on a date. 

I pinch my arms, once, because I need to, but I also smile and then try not to, because my heart feels the way I imagine Puffin does after taking a nap in the sunlight that streams through the kitchen windows in the afternoon—slow and sort of sleepy but also warm and content. 

I tuck my hands in my pockets and duck my head and let myself smile. 

A date.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed! Comments and kudos are always appreciated, but never required.
> 
> Read On,  
> Skats


End file.
